


on decadence

by dollyfish



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Dialogue, Flirting, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Synesthesia, probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 04:51:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9056095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollyfish/pseuds/dollyfish
Summary: Only one week since it first happened a pointless thought materializes in the back of his mind.“Does my voice sound weird?”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paperbridge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperbridge/gifts).



> I finally have the pleasure to post my gift for the 91 Days Secret Santa event! Special thanks to Edgy for putting so much effort into this, and sorry if it comes a little late. I hope you'll accept this fic anyway Papes! This is for you, keep being amazing.  
> I was really undecided and couldn't settle on anything, and certainly I could have been a lot more original, but this is a small headcanon of mine that has never seen the light until now, and I hope you'll enjoy.

 

 

Nero takes up the habit of handing over reports to him. His hand slides them gently upon the wooden surface of the writing desk and Avilio, the one other habitual occupant of the room, and one-month long lover, leans in from his favorite armchair and regards the papers.

As a consequence, Avilio takes up the habit of reading them out loud. He easily articulates every record of other gangs’ activities, relationships with the local police, moonshine production. This, in particular, proceeds smoothly, with some hitches here and there, solvable and insignificant. All so insignificant.

 

He feels like he’s reading the chronicle of their relationship.

Ever since they got Fango the throne (and the restaurant) he wished for, business has been going so well Avilio can’t help but feel restless, excited to have something to keep his hands and brain occupied with. His position gives him control and gratification. Several things ensue.

Nero, for one, looks healthier and rather prone to compliments. He shaves every day, makes Barbero keep track of the family’s exponential incomings and doesn’t make a big deal out of Avilio stealing half his packs of cigarettes to smoke his own apathy away. Nero shows to be rather fond of this habit of his, actually, often lending him a silver-plated lighter before Avilio even asks.

 

Ever since their little “roadtrip”, so to say, this back-and-forth of teasing and joking has been taking root in their daily routine, to the point that for how discreet they may be no one could deny their mutual understanding. Nero’s good mood is attributable to the captivating night activities they’ve been engaging into. He’s more admirable under the sheets than the most devoted fantasy, with the catch that now Avilio has even lost the ability to fantasize; all he wishes for is given to him, as sincerely, as respectfully as every pilgrim that has ever knelt before a saint, without so much as a sign of reluctance biting at tired bones. This is not a simple love, never has been, no, this is the gore on a crime scene and saints know a thing or two about crime scenes, don’t they? On the first day, death by crucifixion, on the second, death by drowning, on the third, burnt alive, the fourth, left alone.

Then, suddenly they’re statues, for everyone to adore.

If only Nero’s previous lovers knew about them, they would wonder if they were even loved at all.

 

Avilio is just like a polyhedron, but his voice is always the same as he reads aloud; coherent, rich and unenthusiastic. A lackluster performance that doesn’t even try to be entertaining. Avilio is too seductive to be entertaining. It’s nothing to joke about.

Nero listens carefully, gaze fixed on a random object to make it seem like he’s at least concentrating on something, when in fact Avilio’s flat tone seems to be suggestive of all kinds of things. His eyes always open like a book, so bewitching and blue. All about him is preposterous, almost unfair and it makes him want to reach up to Nero’s collar and dig out secrets Nero hasn’t disclosed yet, all with his own fingernails. But just as he thinks this, a small, dark patch crawls back in a corner of his mind where it belongs, much like a wounded insect. Avilio has never met anyone with eyes quite as bright after witnessing so much misery.

 

Only one week since it first happened a pointless thought materializes in the back of his mind.

“Does my voice sound weird?”

 

“Your voice? --Weird?” Nero chuckles, low and deep, and it would give Avilio goosebumps if he hadn’t been bracing himself. Elbows set firmly on the armrests, Avilio leans back. “In no way. I would say… it gives a sense of finality and I kind of like that; it’s effective with the rookies. One just has to do everything you say. Well, actually, it’s more like doing something special, something unique, with the knowledge that it will take a long time to feel exactly like that once again.”

 

Avilio would lie if he declared not to be a little flustered by such a lengthy explanation, but he cocks an eyebrow at Nero, the report forgotten, resting in his lap by now. Nero glances at his pale, pale hands, streaked by the glistening sunlight that comes in through the thick window behind the Don’s back.

His silence probably prompts Nero to say more, even if not intentionally; “I do like it. Avilio, in case I wrongly expressed myself, I really like listening to you. In fact, you could say I find it more pleasant than any _soprano_.” Nero smiles and turns back to the telegram he’s racking his brain to write. He is a man that, more often than not, has just too many words.

 

Avilio chuckles lightly. He lets a few seconds pass and a silence settle between them, and he lets Nero get used to it. Then suddenly he admits, “There are very little things I can’t, you know, make sense of.”

 

Nero’s eyes flicker to him. Then they return to the yellowed rectangle of paper. “That’s because you’re always mulling over stuff. Entertaining possibilities. It’s most noticeable when you smoke.”

 

“Oh, you noticed.”

 

“What, do you think I am blind?”

 

A pregnant pause fills the room. Avilio wears a harmless smile. “No, Nero, unless, do you have synesthesia?”

 

He knows he has hit the mark perfectly, elegantly, with a graciousness that rises above the expectations one could have for a mafioso, or even a man in his position, with a nature such as his. A certain kind of wit is for the women, the temptresses, man-eaters, goddesses. Nero just scoffs; “Figures. I’m not even surprised.”

 

“It’s nothing to be surprised about. I just had a chat with Fio, that’s all.”

 

“When did you get so close to my family?” Asks Nero half-jokingly.

 

Avilio shrugs, but he sees nothing bad in the questions that follows. “What color is my voice?”

  
  


“It’s golden.”

  
  


The color of decadence. “I was wondering why you’re always asking me to read.”

 

“Ah, guilty as charged. But, can you really blame a man who loves the sound of opulence, eroticism and religion?”

 

The report laid unregarded on the armchair, the distance between the two men decreasing by the second until Avilio was leaning into Nero’s personal space with his hands perched on the left armrest, their breaths mingling. It was merely a contest of durability. They could have pretended otherwise, but there would be no point in it.

 

“Do you want to taste them?”

 

It was rare for Avilio to be the giver, in their relationship, but Nero was absolutely content with that. Nero was a killer: he’d killed his hopes, his innocence, his chance to die as a guiltless little child with a real name on his grave. Nero dirtied him, Nero somehow found his way under his skin, and his name, in Avilio’s eyes, is not a coincidence.

But in Avilio’s eyes, that’s the problem, Nero also ceases to be a murdered, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a thief and a criminal with a loaded pistol in the folds of his coat. Where all these things and more end, and where a man begins, is the blurred line between the deep ocean and the beach; a shore that slowly fades away with the tide.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas and happy holidays!!!


End file.
